


Skeletons in the Closet

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Ficlet, M/M, Sticky Sex, mentions of Pharma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1646915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE: Ratchet says the wrong name; awkward conversations ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skeletons in the Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at writing different scenarios, and whatever this is happened.
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.
> 
> Enjoy :B

* * *

“Uh. _Harder_.”

Ratchet writhed beneath Drift, his cooling fans wide open and blasting hot air. The CMO’s optics were shuttered, his head thrown back and face twisted up with rapture. He rocked against the spike that was embedded in his port, ankles crossed behind Drift’s back, red digits digging scrapes into the third-in-command’s armor. Ratchet was close, so close, and with a snarl Drift pistoned his hips, small moans escaping his throat as that hot, dripping port clenched along the length of his spike. A shudder ripped through the medic's body — Drift felt the grip on him tighten — and overload cascaded through Ratchet’s frame, sending his electromagnetic field into a wild, spiraling flare.

And then —

“ _Pharma!_ ”

Drift felt his entire body _stop_ , as if it had turned to cold stone.

This had happened once before — just once, in the throes of passion — and Drift had written it off then as an anomaly. It had occurred shortly after their return from Delphi, when emotions had been running high, and maybe, just maybe, Drift hadn’t heard right. Both he and Ratchet had been preoccupied, near-death experiences and all, and perhaps Drift’s audials had glitched, or his brain had glitched, or perhaps _Ratchet_ had glitched. Either way, until now, it hadn’t happened since, and Drift had filed it away, hoping it would never happen again.

But it had.

Drift was still sheathed in Ratchet, still grasping the medic’s bulky shoulders — and save for the spasms rippling through his port, Ratchet had frozen too, optics flickering back online and locking with Drift’s.

“Damn it.”

“Ratch—“

“I said his name, didn’t I?” Ratchet’s EM field prickled with shame. “ _Damn_ it.”

Drift flinched, then slowly pulled himself free of the CMO’s port. His arousal was subsiding quickly, replaced instead with agitation and something he really hoped wasn’t jealously. “It’s okay,” Drift lied.

“No, it isn’t.” With a groan, Ratchet propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Drift untangled himself from the CMO, then sat back on his heels. “You weren’t _thinking_ about him, were you?” The look of horrified disgust that flitted over Ratchet’s face answered his question immediately, and Drift sagged with relief.

“Of course not. Old habits die hard, though.” He vented a sigh, then ran a hand over the flashy, red armor of Drift’s shoulder. “Come here.”

The third-in-command hesitated, then crawled forward, knees between Ratchet’s thighs. “You and — and _him_ , though? _Why?_ ”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Ratchet grunted. “We have skeletons in the closet, you and me both.”

“Good thing he’s dead now.” Drift was almost surprised to hear the words leave his mouth. He believed in redemption, and he believed in second chances — Primus, did he ever — but after what had happened at Delphi, he’d made a special case for Pharma, and now that he knew the surgeon had once been a former lover of Ratchet’s, well —

The tiniest of smirks ticked at the corner of the medic’s mouth. “Feeling a little territorial, are we?”

“Maybe,” said Drift, his voice carrying a growl. “Maybe I am. Would that bother you?”

“Not in the slightest.” In an act of reassurance, Ratchet caressed Drift’s helm, red digits moving along a sharp-tipped finial. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to let it happen again. Okay?”

The ex-Deception chewed on his lower lip, then nodded. “Okay.”

“And now that the mood is completely destroyed —“

“Don’t worry about it.” The last vestiges of arousal had faded from Drift’s systems, and he realized he was content to simply curl up against Ratchet’s side, head rested against the warmth of the medic’s chestplate. He shuttered his optics and drank in the smell of the CMO’s quarters, post-overload: cooling lubricant, hot metal, fried circuitry. “I trust you, you know. More than I’ve trusted anyone else.”

“I know, and I’m honored.”

“Do you trust me?” Drift asked.

“Yes,” said Ratchet, “but perhaps not as much as you’d like me to.”

The third-in-command mulled the answer over for a while, and found that it neither surprised nor offended him. Finally, he rebooted his vision and murmured, “You know my past, Ratch, and you know it’s not pretty. I guess — I guess, if you ever feel like you want to share _yours_ , I’d be happy to listen.”

“Let me put another month or two between me and what happened at Delphi, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

There was some silence; idly, Drift stroked one of Ratchet’s hands, black fingers twining with red in a lazy massage. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

“I think I am, too.”

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :B


End file.
